The Affair
by lisbeth14
Summary: Ana and Christian are having a secret dangerous affair. Problem is, Ana's engaged to someone close to him. But what happens when feelings become entangled and they can't let each other go? (Cheating but between Ana and Christian). HEA.
1. Chapter 1

Not sure what you'll think of this story, but I'll let you decide for yourself :)

* * *

 **The Affair**

It wasn't even meant to happen, yet it did.

A couple of wines, a hotel room bed. A momentary discretion that turned into weekly momentary discretion's.

Sometimes, I wonder what he would think if he ever found out. Would he leave me? Yes, I know he would. I know that is a consequence I would more than likely have to face and yet, I cannot quit him. I cannot stop, even though I know I should. For him.

I often wonder whether I'm a bad person. I know, without a doubt, that the answer is yes.

...

My phone goes off in my handbag while I'm in the middle of lunch, peeling my banana. I'm in my workstation, trying to edit some notes for the boss. Shoving the last piece of banana inside my mouth, I grab my phone as I chew, checking my message. It's from him.

 _Same time tonight?_

There are moments, as there always are, where my thumb hesitates and hovers over the keypad on my phone. Moments where I have a conscience, where I consider deleting his text message or not replying. And yet, there is a part of me that cannot even bring myself to do that. Regardless of all the pain and anguish I know this will inevitably cause, I just cannot do it.

Like always, I text my reply:

 _Yes, of course. Can't wait._

...

"How are things?" Is the first question Christian always asks whenever we meet. I know he's hoping my answer will change, but its always the same.

"Things are okay," I murmur, keeping it at that. He is so much different compared to me; He can easily talk about it, as if its nothing to be talking about it with me. Like this is no big deal. But when he asks me about it, when we meet at the restaurant, when he buys me a decadent glass of wine and leans over the table, stroking my fingers with his, my conscience always returns.

I cannot talk about the subject, particularly not to him. Not with my partner in crime. So I tend to keep it simple and sweet.

 _Things are okay. Things are okay._ That's always the easiest response.

...

No one needs to know. That's become my motto, my catchphrase, in times like this. They don't need to know.

Christian's fingers curl beneath my underwear, stroking me, caressing me, brushing and pushing his thumb against my clit, _right there perfection_.

They don't need to know.

He kisses me, swallowing my moans. My legs curl around him. My ankles dig into his backside.

"You're so wet," he breathes hotly into my lips, astonished. "You've been waiting for this all day, haven't you, Anastasia?"

No one needs to know. I'm working late.

...

"Where've you been?" he asks groggily from his spot on the mattress, head in his hands. "It's three am."

I don't know if he's worked it out yet, or if he even knows or has garnered the suspicion yet.

But it's always the same. Same old dirty sick feeling afterwards. It's funny how things seem so much better hours before. So much more romantic, exciting in a hotel room lamplight. Loving.

"I had to stay back later at work tonight."

 _You're so wet. You've been waiting for this all day, haven't you, Anastasia?_

...

Meeting downtown for coffee. Emergency meeting. Same old sick, dirty feeling.

"I can't do this anymore." A desperate wail, a horrible acerbic tang in my mouth. "I fucking hate myself."

A sharp hiss of breath leaves him, his gray eyes clouding with hurt. "You want this to stop?"

...

Later, after convincing me to come back to a hotel room. As always, everything seems so much more better in the lamplight.

"You want this to stop, Anastasia?" His hot mouth on my throat, his warm masculine hands touching me. Gliding down beneath my shirt, caressing my skin. His jean-clad groin pressing up against me firmly from behind. "Did you still mean what you said at the coffee shop, baby?" My back arches up against him without my control, my breath hitching in my throat. He knows I can't possibly want it to stop, especially not now that he's started. He knows- he knows me probably better than I even know myself. While talking like this, touching like this... "You want this to stop?"

He's an addiction. Something poisonous, something that will only make it all turn badly in the end. And yet, I crave him, always.

Behind me, he grabs hold of my left wrist, then he glides his hand down. He grabs my ring, slides it off my finger, and places it on the bedside table behind us. Diamonds glisten in the lamplight, and I begin to feel sick at what that ring represents.

He squashes it all down seemingly effortlessly, when he grasps my shoulders between both hands, turns me around forcefully, and kisses me.

I know what he means by that, what it signifies, the removal of that ring.

I belong to him. I'm all his for a couple of hours.

My previous, current life, as well as the burden- he removes it physically from me along with the demonstration of removing my ring.

I'm free.

...

Afterwards, lying on the wrinkled hotel sheets, both of us sated from the craving, sweaty, sticky, breathless.

He strokes my hair while I have my cheek resting against his chest. Every time he exhales and inhales, he tickles me with his chest hair. And its in moments like this, peaceful quiet tender moments alone, here, lying with him after the craving has subsided, that I don't feel guilty; the rare moment my conscience has gone.

"This has really hooked its teeth into us," Christian murmurs thoughtfully, his voice reverberating through his chest into me. "I don't even know how I manage on most days, baby. I can't even stop... thinking about you. It's hooked me real tight." He lifts his head, burying his nose into my hair, inhaling me in.

 _It's hooked me real tight. Amen._

...

Another meeting. Desperate pleas uttered over caviar and red wine at the table.

"Really, we have to be done, Christian." Sick feeling. Terrible taste in mouth. "I can't live like this anymore. We need to stop."Shifting his chair closer, his knees brushing against mine, his hands cradle my head, pulling me close. Hushing me as the tears fall, stroking me. "No matter how strong it takes hold, we have to... stop. We have to stop this time, for good." My hands bunch his shirt into fists, pulling the fabric tight.

"Okay, okay. You're right." Insincere words breathed into my forehead. "We'll stop, Anastasia."

"It's not fair to him. This has to stop."

"I know, baby." He curls his hands around my chin, tilting my head up. I peer up at him through wet, desperate eyes as he stares back into my eyes deeply, painfully. "We'll stop," he assures me breathlessly, agonizingly. "Of course, we have to stop. You're right."

We stare at each other for a long moment, his fingers weaving through my hair.

Staring at him, I see his eyes soften, the tenderness in his expression. Then he bends down, catching my lips with his. One brief, last kiss.

A comfort kiss. A final kiss.

I part my mouth to him, cautiously, my eyes still wide open. I watch his face at a close distance, the way he clenches his eyes shut tight. Then he starts again, with that same rhythm- fast, desperate, head-tilting, bottom lip plucking- the one that gets me into the mood, the one that always tends to reel me in.

Placing both hands on top of his shoulders, I try to push back into the chair, to cease our kissing before this thing grasps hold of us again when its supposed to be ending, but Christian is too passionate, too strong. He rests both hands on my shoulders, thumbs stroking, swiping at my collarbone as the feeling takes over, that curse, sweeping me up again.

Just like that, I crumble. I cave.

Rinse and repeat. He always knows all the ways to keep me coming back for more. That's what makes it all the more harder.

...

"Let me guess," he grumbles when I sneak in after arriving home late, "Another late night in the office?"

I can't meet his gaze as I pad my way into the conjoined bathroom. "Yeah, another late night," is always my answer, before I shut the bathroom door to cleanse myself, to rid myself of the evidence of Christian.

I know he must suspect, surely. He has to suspect.

Sometimes he looks at me in ways that tells me that he does suspect, that he knows. A question often forms in his eyes, but he never asks it out loud. Why can't he just ask it?

...

Another text message, at work:

 _Same time tonight?_

But this time, I am stronger. This time, I don't answer.

...

Another text message, two hours later:

 _Anastasia, I need you. Why aren't you writing back?_

One shortly after:

 _What? Is he there with you?_

...

Though it takes a lot of agony, a lot of self-discipline and courage and misery, I manage to hold off from responding to Christian's texts for three full days. Three full days without him.

An accomplishment for me, though it feels anything but an accomplishment. Torture, seems more apt to describe it.

But when work finishes and I gather my things and push in my chair to leave, he foils it all. Pushing through the rotating doors, I head outside, tucking my coat around me. It's been raining and after having finished my shift, its nine-thirty in the evening already.

It's freezing, damp, and dark.

I look across the street and... there he stands by the car, in jeans, a black trench coat. My heart is in my throat, and its not supposed to be like this. Why does he have to make it so hard? I try to wean myself off him and then he makes it impossible, showing up unexpectedly where I work, reeling me back in.

A quitter being shown images of cigarettes. An alcoholic being near a pub. The longing to have that vice again, to feel it, experience it... it hits, strongly and poignantly.

His expression is dark in the streetlights. He's pissed off by me blatantly ignoring him- I can see it, in the way his jaw is strained tight, the anxiety around his eyes. He strides purposefully towards me across the street, sliding both hands out from where he had them tucked deep inside his trench coat pockets.

I want to run. I want to turn in the opposite direction and briskly walk away.

Yet he reaches me, and it becomes far too late. He stares down at me with an unnamed emotion, careful not to touch me with his hands- which is a relief within itself. They hang limply at his sides, and I'm thankful. If he touches me, I know it will all over with then.

"I haven't heard from you in over three days," he mutters under his breath, his voice low, frustrated. His breaths come out in foggy mists from the chill in the air. "You won't reply to my texts." He shakes his head, bringing up a hand to rake his fingers through his hair. "What the fuck is going on here, Anastasia? Have you any idea how worried I've been?"

He lifts his hand, about to touch my arm, to embrace me, but I sideswipe him, preventing it, just in time. His trembling fingers don't even make contact.

"Have you any idea how much I've been going out of my fucking mind?" I catch both hands move up towards my face, and I know he wants to hold my face in between his hands, he wants to touch me. I move and push my head away, stepping back a short distance. He sighs loudly at my reaction, and I feel my throat close over. I know I'm going to start crying, I'm any second away from doing it. I grit my teeth, forcing myself not to, when he whispers in a hurt, shaky voice, "Why aren't you letting me touch you?"

"Because you can't touch me, Christian." I can hardly stand to meet his eyes. I keep my chin low, my eyes fixed on a button on his trench coat. "You know what will happen if you do."

"But I need to," he mutters, his breath catching. The desperation in his tone, the sheer longing to do it, it makes my heart ache. "You know I need to touch you, baby. Three whole fucking days. I can't go without it any longer, not now that I'm looking at you."

He goes to touch me again, but I move, backing away a few paces on the slick, wet gravel. Finally, I manage to muster up some courage to peer up at his face reluctantly, apprehensively. He pants, staring back at me, a million different emotions from him all at once: Frustration, pain, irritation, desperation.

"Please," he begs wretchedly, and its not supposed to go like this. "Please, baby. I can't not touch you. Especially not now that I have you here, standing right in front of me, at arms length. I need you. I need to know why you aren't answering my phone messages or my calls."

"You already know why, Christian."

"Why?" he demands, as though he really doesn't know.

"Because, the same reason as every other time. This has to end. We can't keep going on like this anymore and I... I'm sick of loathing myself, of waking up every minute being disgusted with myself. I'm sick of being terrified of him finding out, of what his reaction will be to us. This just... it needs to end."

I'm not even sure how I manage it or where such strength comes from.

Pushing back in my stilettos I turn. And I walk away.

...

"Ana's been working real late, haven't you? Every night, she's been working late. It's ridiculous how often her boss expects her to pull such long hours."

An innocent statement shared around the dining room table, like he doesn't actually truly know or suspect.

"Mmm," Grace concurs, pointing her fork at me as she battles through chewing down a mouthful of salad. "That is ridiculous, isn't it?"

"Hopefully your wage and pay-package should be decent by then, though," Carrick comments brightly. "Always something good to consider when wanting to save or go on holiday trips."

"I couldn't agree more." Christian.

It's overwhelming, being in close proximity, yet it couldn't be helped. He said Christian was away on a business trip, yet at the last minute, he came over, dropping in unannounced. I think I was more shocked by it than his mother Grace was.

Clenching my eyes shut at the sound of his voice from across the table minutely, I hear the masked anger in it, the undercurrent of bitterness. Someone's shoe wedges between my ankles beneath the table, pulling my feet apart, a jean clad thigh pressing between my legs. In a moment of panic, I try to shut my legs, to squash whoever that wandering leg belongs to- and I have a hunch- but its no good. No matter how hard I clench, no matter how strong I try to be, it isn't working.

When I reopen my eyes slowly, I focus on him from where he sits across from me at the table while forcing a smile on my lips.

He's holding onto his wine glass, swirling the red contents around with a flourish of his hand, his eyes burning into mine.

He's trying to ruin me. Seek revenge.

It's been three entire weeks now. They say that absence makes the heart grow fonder. Perhaps, in my case, they were unfortunately correct?

"Oh, you'd love that, wouldn't you?" Grace speaks up again. "Travelling overseas? Italy? Paris?"

"I think Anastasia would prefer to go to London," Christian remarks, and its like a wake-up call. He knows me so well; My preferences, my dreams, my aspirations. Does he? I see his head turn into my direction questioningly. "Well, that's what you told me when I last talked to you here at dinner, wasn't it, Anastasia? That you wanted to travel to London more than anywhere else?"

Christian's in damage control mode, repairing the issue. He asked me about where I would like to travel a long time ago, ever since this first started between us. Nice save.

"Yes." I have to clear my throat, my voice too hoarse. "Yes, that's right. I think I would rather go to London, most of all."

"London's nice, too," Grace agrees with a shrug.

He brings his foot up, the cool leather of his loafer brushing against my legs through the dress I'm wearing. And then it's enough for me. I stand, excusing myself to use the bathroom. I wish he would stop it with the games already. Particularly in front of him. Surely he knows how risky it would be, if he worked it out, if he worked out the connection somehow.

"Excuse me," I hear Christian say politely to his family and, no, no, no. This cannot be happening.

With shaky legs, I retreat, climbing hurriedly up the stairs in order to escape. The thumping noises of his shoes warns me that he's on my tail. Fuck, no Christian. Don't do this to me.

I take a left into his room, immediately finding his en suite. I feel flushed, sweaty, panicked. I'm just turning back to shut the bathroom door on myself completely when he appears. He catches the door before I can close myself in safely, shoving his foot in between the crack. Fuck.

"Christian, go away," I warn in a hushed voice. It's imperative no one overhears us. He ignores me, and all it takes is a light shove for him to unbalance me. I fall back and he opens the bathroom door. "Christian, don't," I beg, but its too late. He closes us inside his bathroom, flicking the lock so no one can enter inside.

I'm stuck, cornered, trapped, cowering by the sink.

When I decisively make the bold move to step past him and get free, he catches me by the arm, effortlessly wrenching me back.

"Don't fucking move, Anastasia," he warns menacingly. "You really think I'm going to let you leave that easily?"

He pushes me into the wall- though not brutally, just enough force for me to feel my back press flat against it- and then he grabs me by the hair, fisting strands painfully in his hand, leaving me no choice but to surrender when he kisses me roughly, furiously against the bathroom wall. The tiles are cool and freezing as they soak through the thin fabric of my dress, keeping me alert, awake. But I can only stay alert for so long.

I feel it begin again as he tilts his head, kissing me in that way, deepening the kiss with his tongue. His other hand, he uses as he bends slightly with his knees, pressing his hand between my knees. Only him. Only he knows all the right ways to tempt me, to warm me into it.

I cannot move. I'm restricted to standing there, pressed against the tiled wall, as Christian kisses me urgently, three whole weeks worth of kissing, while he trails his hand deep up between my legs. He reaches straight up my dress, right at the apex of my thighs and I'm done then. All it takes is one circular, stroking movement with his fingertips through my underwear, one stroke, and I'm done, finished, wet for him, aroused.

I shouldn't, but it happens naturally, without my control. My hands lift from my sides, and I grasp onto his forearms, feeling his bicep muscles straining through his shirt as I tilt my head, responding to his kiss.

It's just too hard. I hate so much that its too hard.

His hold on me is too strong, he's too powerful. I am weak. It has to end- and yet always, he reels me straight back, each and every time.

"Have you missed me all this time?" he breathes hoarsely. His breathing is harsh as he reaches down, unbuttoning his jeans. "Tell me you've missed me like I've missed you, Anastasia. Say it."

I have missed him, and denying that would only be stupid.

"Yes, I've missed you, Christian," I murmur truthfully.

He runs both hands up my thighs hungrily, then he hooks my underwear between his forefinger and middle-finger. He bends down, sliding my underwear down, leaving me exposed up against the wall.

"It's been an agonizingly long three fucking weeks." I can feel the blood thrumming in my veins, my heart thumping with excitement, with happiness, when he bends forward, pressing kisses on both of my knees. "Now that I've got you here, I can't help it, baby. I need you. Fuck it that he's downstairs."

He stands to his full height while yanking down his jeans, then he goes to kiss me again. I bring up my hands, catching his face between them, holding him back slightly. A harsh hiss of breath leaves him, and he reaches down, grasping onto the back of my thighs, lifting me up. He fills me, pushing into me without warning, and I lean back with a gasp, my head knocking against the hard tiles behind me.

This. This is part of the addiction. How good it fills, him rigid and inside of me.

"Leave him," he pants, and without preamble, he thrusts deeply, once, twice, three times, more and more rougher and aggressive than the last.

I wrap my arms around his shoulders, squeezing tight. Each thrust, I can hear myself moaning loudly, in agony, in bliss- too loud, far too loud.

If he comes upstairs to his bedroom. If he hears whats happening in his en suite.

"Tell him you're done with him, baby." He's relentless, making up for lost time, pounding into me, knocking me against the wall, harder, deeper. "I'm done waiting." His breathing is loud and ragged, matching mine. His voice strained, filled with pleasure, "Tell him you're done and... and leave him so it can just... be us."

I can barely even coherently think straight. All I can seem to acknowledge is... feeling... glorious feeling... tightening.

"Leave him," he grunts again, and I know we're both close. Release is barely seconds away, and when it happens, its like an explosion. I feel him come inside me, his semen hot and sticky as I try to stifle the loud moan I know wants to erupt from me due to the carnal bliss, the euphoria. "Fuck," he gasps, resting his forehead against mine. "Just leave him, because honestly..." He sucks in a deep breath. "I don't think I can take this anymore, Anastasia."

As a drugged relaxation infects me from the orgasm, I nod once, bending down to press my lips into the skin just near his neck.

"Just fucking leave Elliot."

Leave Elliot. Leave Elliot, Christian's older brother.

My partner.

The man I've been engaged to for over two months now.


	2. Chapter 2

Like every story, there is a beginning.

How I met Christian, is another beginning, though its nothing out-of-the-ordinary, how we met. But somehow, it must have been a very important meeting, because even now, four years later since that fateful night, I still can recall it with such clear precision and detail.

I met both brothers at the same time and yet, for some reason, Christian always stands out more clearer in my mind.

...

Elliot was the type of guy you went nuts over, though you couldn't fathom why you'd go crazy over a guy like him in the first place. It was like a whirlwind. I'd always prided myself on being an independent, shit-put-together girl. I'd graduated and had only started my dream job as an editing assistant at Seattle Independent Publishing.

I went out with my best friend Kate for drinks at a bar downtown and a band so happened to be playing live. That band, happened to be Elliot's.

I remember feeling a little tipsy, getting into the music. I remember watching the bass player do his riff as I moved, thrashing my hair around wildly. The bass player stared back at me under the pulsing lights, his hair longer, auburn. He reminded me of a younger Johnny Depp somehow. He was thin, lanky, wild. Musical. The type of guy who has groupies following him. But apparently he wasn't interested in groupies- or any other girls, for that matter. As it turned out, he was interested in me.

The band went for a break and then he was coming towards me, dressed in tight ripped black jeans and a leather shirtless vest, combing his hand through his shoulder-length wayward hair.

"Loving your moves," he had said to me in my ear cheekily, putting his mouth real close. "You look like a Goddess down here. If I had you dancing at all our live shows, then... _damn_."

And _that_ was how it began with Elliot, the bass player.

Then there was Christian. He'd come to support his brother for the live show as well.

Time seemed to stop eerily still when he approached us through the crowd. I caught him past Elliot's shoulder, weaving through the crowd on the dance floor, his eyes gleaming at me from the lights. Even the way he looked at me, as he came towards us, I had a feeling he wanted me. There was just a distinctive way that he looked at me; Full of interest, yet with a certain possessiveness, like he was undressing me with his eyes in my clingy black dress and boots combo.

Ever since that first night of laying eyes on me, he'd never stopped looking at me that way ever since.

...

Four days later, and one show supporting Elliot's band live, we went back to his place because he was too tipsy. Christian joined along.

He clearly could handle his drinks better than his brother could, because he didn't seem drunk at all.

...

"Sorry, babe," Elliot says, apologizing for the forth time as he sinks over the toilet bowl, the stench of vomiting filling the air.

He called me babe, and we hadn't even established what this was between us yet. Was it just something fun? A girl that tags along, supporting a friends band? Or was it... something else?

I try to move over him, rubbing his back comfortingly. I try to hold his hair, yet he waves me away, too embarrassed.

"Go," he pleads. "Get out of here, Ana. You don't need to see this. You don't have to deal with this right now, but thanks."

...

Heading back out into his messy living room, Christian sitting on his beanbag, splayed out, his long legs outstretched. Elliot's clothes everywhere messily on the floor. Old takeaway containers and beer bottles. An ashtray on his marked coffee-table with already smoked joints.

"He's not doing so good, is he?" Christian's way of making light conversation.

"He's really sick. Poor thing must have had too much to drink."

"He's a lightweight." As if its a competition between two brothers. "I had the equal amount of drinks to him and I'm fine."

"Lucky you," I mutter, shoving an old magazine off Elliot's couch so I can sit.

"Your eyes are amazing. Has Elliot told you that?" A sudden, unexpected compliment from him. "Even at night, you shouldn't ever shut them."

I look at him, smiling at his words, and he looks back at me with that same old look he gave me in club when he first saw me. Curious, yet salacious. Like he's undressing me. So different from Elliot. So much more conservative in the way he dressed somehow, less punkish. Sad thing was, I thrived under that look. I was like a flower, wilted leaves recovering, its petals opening and blooming, like his look was the sun. It made me feel extremely good.

Elliot never looked at me that way.

...

Waking at six am the next morning on Elliot's couch, dressed in last night's old clothes. Quiet, the room in his apartment seeming so much more messier and chaotic in the harsh early morning light through the open curtains.

Christian had slept on the beanbag with one of Elliot's old blankets thrown over him. But when I look, he's gone. All evidence left there of him being there is the way the fabric had crinkled on the beanbag, the old flannel blanket bunched up on the floor.

I kick the blanket off my legs and sit up, the couch squeaking from broken springs.

I hear a noise in Elliot's kitchen and I follow it, shivering in my dress.

Christian, shirtless, making toast. Definitely so much different than his brother; Taller, broad-shouldered, muscular, less lanky than Elliot. You can tell he takes care of himself, he works out. He gives me _that look_ , making me thrive, watching me, as I move across the kitchen island, crossing my arms over my chest.

That was the start of it. If I had been able to warn myself back then, _mayday, mayday, danger ahead_ , I would have done so. It certainly would have spared a lot of pain.

Putting his forefinger in the marmalade jar, deep, wiggling it around. Pulling it out, marmalade dripping on Elliot's crumb-dirty sink, turning to me where I stand, watching him in confusion.

"Open your mouth," he breathes, his voice filled with excitement, keeping it low in case Elliot wakes and overhears us.

"Why? What are you going to do, Christian?"

"You'll see. Open up wide."

I shouldn't have done it, but I did. I wanted to show him I was _that girl_. Playful, fun, mischievous. Careless, exciting. Daring.

I stood closer, leaning against the sink, my eyes on him. I did as I was told, opening my mouth to him. He slips his marmalade-covered finger in my mouth, and the taste is so good, I moan around his finger. Sweet, tangy marmalade.

"That's it. Suck."

I reach up, wrapping my fingers around his wrist, holding him steady as I suck hard. The sweetness of the marmalade has disappeared, until its just his finger I'm sucking. His lips part, his breathing changing as I pull down on his wrist, guiding his finger in my mouth, moving up-down, up-down.

The door from Elliot's room opens and I spit his finger out, darting away. My heart pounds from being nearly caught when Elliot appears, his shoulder-length hair messy, looking like death with a hangover.

It was addictive. A huge rush. A secret between us.

I didn't even feel guilty then. Elliot and I hadn't exactly defined what we were. We'd made out once, but that was it.

...

Then it changed, two more weeks later.

Christian was like a hanger-on, spending time with us every time we went to watch Elliot's band play live. After his set, he came over to me from where I sat on a stool at a table. Slipping his sweaty arm around my shoulder, pulling me back into him. High from positive feedback from the crowd.

"I want to ask you something," he says in my ear.

"What?"

"Want to be my girlfriend?" My eyes dart instinctively to where his brother is, across from me. He's watching us carefully with both elbows resting on the table. He's trying to eavesdrop, to hear us over the music, only with little success.

Something makes me say it without little thought. Maybe it's the two drinks I've had? Maybe its wanting to be vindictive a little, to see what he'll do. A game. "Of course, I'll be your girlfriend, Elliot."

"So that's a yes?"

I turn around in the stool to face him. "It's a yes!"

Full of happiness, he kisses me once on the lips and twines his arms around my neck, hugging me. We both laugh, though it feels fake on my part. Happiness doesn't even touch me, although it should. I should be happy Elliot has made the next move, and yet I am left feeling empty, hollow as ice. Why?

Suddenly, he jolts back. "Shit, gotta get back up there, baby."

"Go kick some ass," I shout back at him through the loud cheers of encouragement, a supportive new girlfriend. "You're killing it up there!"

He gives me the thumbs up as he jumps back on stage, grabbing his guitar, slipping it on. His band starts playing again, and I clap my hands, watching eagerly. Elliot is so good with a guitar. Christian is good with a piano, but with Elliot, its an electric guitar.

Christian's shoe deliberately nudging my leg beneath the table.

"What was all that about?" he asks loudly over the music once he gets my attention, something there in his voice, his eyes.

"Elliot asked me out," I inform him, taking a sip from my drink, watching his expression.

"And what? What did you say?"

"I said yes," I shout back at him through Elliot's guitar riff, my voice finally shaking with the right amount of happiness, of joy.

"You said what?" Christian leans closer, putting his face near mine so he can hear.

I put my mouth near his ear, "I said yes. I'm Elliot's girlfriend."

It's like a pearl of thunder crackling abruptly, violently, in the distance.

Cursing under his breath, he climbs off the stool, taking his drink with him. He's angry, in a shitty mood. Shouldn't he be more happy for his older brother? I watch nervously as he moves away from me to sit up at the bar, a strange unhappy jealous tension there.

...

That night, sleeping curled up in Elliot's bed. Christian on the couch. The shower running, the plumbing making bad banging noises through the wall, waking me, making it impossible to sleep. The bedroom door pushing and falling open, a silhouette. The dodgy plumbing creaking.

"God," I mutter in annoyance, peering up at his shadow. Dark shadows cover the room, making it impossible to see his face. "Your plumbing is really bad, Elliot. You should really think of asking the landlord to get it fixed."

No answer. Just reaching down, grabbing the blanket on the bed. Dragging it down off my body. The mattress squeaking as he leans down, his hot mouth finding my bare feet and toes. His hands caressing my legs, trailing eagerly the outline of them, up my calves, my thighs. Desperate, heavy breathing. Shower water constantly running in the next room.

Moving up my body as I lean back against the pillows, trying not to move. Biting my lip. Wiggling, ticklish, when he uses his tongue. He licks a circle around my belly button, then he delves his tongue in, striking me, lashing me. A moan half mingled with laughter escapes my mouth.

Reaching down, grabbing his head in my hands. I can barely see the shape of his head, the outline of it. He doesn't feel like Elliot, my mind registers slowly when I touch his hair, caressing him. He kisses me on each swell of cleavage through my bra, a husky grunt leaving his mouth. His hair is shorter, it isn't long like Elliot's. His hands don't feel like Elliot's; They are bigger, rougher. More masculine, more confident. More knowing in where to touch me and what to do.

His mouth doesn't feel the same. When he kisses me, his chin scratches me, filled with light stubble.

He's not Elliot.

 _Your eyes are amazing. Even at night, you shouldn't ever shut them..._

There's a fleeting sense of panic, of realization.

Propping himself up on his hands, he moves back down the mattress, sliding his lips, his teeth, his chin, down my body and legs as he goes. Then he hooks his fingers in and starts peeling down my underwear, slowly, gradually, his breathing louder.

Once my panties are hung around my ankles, he pushes my legs wide apart, going between them. Bringing my legs up, wanting to shut them squeamishly.

And then he uses his fingers, parting me, opening me. His hot tongue probes me _right there_ , and I make a noise, hands flying to his hair, a gasp leaving me. I shake like I'm vibrating as he licks me, sucks me, the creaky plumbing in the bathroom becoming mere background noise, something inconsequential.

He eats me like he's starving, like he hasn't eaten for days.

I'm a buffet and I'm carried away, floating on heightened feeling, all conscience or belief of right and wrong leaving me.

When I clench, when I come, fisting his hair roughly, he doesn't even stop, he doesn't even show me mercy. A pleasured high-pitch groan merely leaves him, like my moisture and orgasm is his reward and he's reaping benefits from it.

It's only when the creaking plumbing stops through the wall and the shower shuts off that he surrenders, that he shows me pity.

Sweaty, flushed, he says not a word as he grabs my underwear, pulling it back up over my legs, over my dampness, my heat. He adjusts the blanket back over me, and then he leaves, exiting the bedroom without another word.

Like it never happened. Like it was just a dream.

...

Waking up the next morning, Elliot snoring beside me.

His apartment empty, quiet. Christian gone. Probably he went into work.

My head is pounding as I cross into Elliot's bathroom, damp towels still lining the floor from his shower. I meet my reflection in the mirror, feeling nauseous, terrified. Do I look different? I wonder as I peer into my own wet eyes as they stare back at me. Will Elliot smell it on me? Will he notice?

Far as I can tell, I don't look too noticeably different.

Just ill. Sick. Teary.

Anger courses through me, rage at myself.

 _I fucking hate myself. Who am I?_

 _Who have I become? Why did it happen last night?_

 _What's more, how did I let it? How could I do that?_

...

He's got me looking so crazy.

Striding briskly through the elevator at his workplace, finding his office.

"Ma'am, you need to make an appointment." His assistant calling me back desperately. "Ma'am, you can't just go in-"

I ignore her, wrenching open the door, breathing heavily. He's on the phone, sitting at his desk in his chair. He blinks several times in surprise as he stands, looking me over. Dressed in his best light blue Armani suit, white shirt and grey tie, all business, work, and no play.

"Something has came up. I'll call you back shortly." The connection clicking off on the phone as he reaches down on the machine, ending the call.

"Ma'am. I'm sorry, Mr Grey, Sir, I tried but she-"

"-Andrea, it's fine." He holds up a hand to silence her, then combs his fingers through his slick, neat hair. "Close the door behind you on the way out please."

"Oh. Of course, sir."

I don't even hear the door close. I stare at him, immobile, shaking from head to toe. My eyes are wet with rage. I'm seething. Now that I'm here, in his office, alone with him... Now that he's looking right back at me, I have no idea what to say. Yet there is so many things I _want_ to say.

He pushes his chair back, moving towards me while running a hand down his tie. _Fucking bastard. Acting like nothing even happened. Careless, cocky. Fucking sexy._

"You shit!" I cry out, and then it happens, an impulse.

I lift my hand, slapping his cheek, hard. He doesn't even have the grace to apologize. He simply closes his eyes at the sting, at the resounding slap in his office, breathing deeply through his nose. He doesn't say anything.

"How _could_ you?" I hiss out angrily, and as I slap him again, a sob tears through my mouth. "How _could_ you come into the room and _do that_ to me in the middle of the night when I'm with your brother?"

His lips part as he breathes heavily through gritted teeth, pain etching across his face as his cheek reddens. Still, he keeps his eyes tightly shut. Why isn't he doing anything? Why isn't he saying anything? Why isn't he defending himself no less? Why isn't he stopping me from hitting him?

His eyes slowly open as he lifts his hand, covering his red cheek, squinting at the pain. When he glances up at me with his grey eyes, I sense it there again. That possessiveness, that quiet jealousy raging through the surface. His jaw clenches, a tightness around his eyes.

"Don't do anything like that to me ever again," I mutter spitefully, then I go to leave.

He catches my arm, wrenching me back against him, startling me.

"You knew," he mutters in my ear, the words hard, accusatory.

"What?" I gasp, attempting to shake myself free. His fingers only tighten around my arm, bruising me, punishing me like I deserve for what I did.

"You _knew_ it was me." His breaths are hot, brushing against my earlobe. "You knew it was me last night all along."

I hate the implication, but he's right. I _did_ know. _So why hadn't I stopped him like I should have?_

"You wanted me, Anastasia," he continues, and he catches my earlobe between his teeth, clenching.

I cry out in pain at the sharp sting as his front teeth and bottom teeth clench down, pinching me. _Fuck it hurts_. Tears well up in my eyes as I scrunch up my face, and then I jab him with my elbow as hard as I can manage. He lets go with his teeth, but his hand is still wrapped around my elbow. He yanks me back against him again, his breathing heavy, harsh.

"You wanted me all along too, otherwise you would have stopped it. You would have said something."

It tears out through clenched teeth, a bitter twang there. "Get off me, Christian."

"You wanted me, Anastasia." He's taunting me, torturing me. "Not Elliot, but _me_. You liked what I did."

Growling through my teeth, I try to hit him again with my free hand, but he catches it, holding my arm down effortlessly with his hand at my side. I hate him. I hate his carelessness, his taunts. Most of all, I hate that he's right. I knew it wasn't Elliot.

Elliot couldn't have done what he did to me last night. Elliot could never make me feel so good or know all the ways to use his mouth, his moist tongue. I'm disgusting.

Christian thrusts his chin in my hair, nuzzling me, another tremor racing down my body as the tears cascade down my cheeks. "You came so hard in my mouth." His breathing is loud, matching mine, as his voice softens. "Did you notice? You came so..." His fingers slacken around my arm, until he's holding me, gently, carefully. "So... beautifully hard that I tasted you."

I hate how he does it. His words, his voice. Seductive. Filled with longing, with revelry.

"You tasted so good, Ana. Like dessert."

I swallow against another cry as he shoves his chin up against my forehead, inhaling me in.

"What... what do you _want_ from me, Christian?" I plead. "What? You want to ruin what I have with your brother over some sort of... _competitive streak_ you have with him?"

"I could _still_ taste you," he goes on, ignoring my words. "I could _still taste_ you this morning, Anastasia." He moans through his mouth, appreciative, hungrily. He strokes the tip of his nose against my temple. "I could taste you all over my mouth when I woke, when I left."

It wasn't supposed to go that way. I was supposed to confront him, to tell him off. Yet Christian has always had such a strong powerful effect on me- and he knows it. He uses it to his advantage, feeding my addiction.

 _You came so beautifully hard that I tasted you..._

That was how it started between us. The going behind Elliot's back. Volatile, deceptive. Rough. Passionate. Treacherous to Elliot.

I started seeing Elliot barely twice a week because he was busy, whereas with Christian, we were seeing each other for at least four times a week. Dinner together. Hotel rooms. Movies.

The guilt came and went in waves. Some days, it would hit hard, painfully, to the point where I would cry and feel like doing something harmful to myself. Other days, I was ignorantly, happily, blissfully guilt-free.

Elliot never once suspected, I don't think. Even in a room together, at a bar if Christian tagged along, he never felt anything was odd about anything. A hidden glance at each other, a surreptitious brush of Christian's hand on my arm or on my backside when he knew Elliot wasn't looking.

I knew Elliot never suspected. Because when he asked me, that big fateful question, it signified that he didn't know anything.

...

Dinner at Christian and Elliot's parents house, Grace and Carrick.

Grace, so warm and inviting. Carrick so intrigued by my job and everything I do. Mia, their sister, hanging off my arm, thinking I'm so cool because I'm older.

The Grey's are the loveliest, kindest family. It's a shame I'm a sham, that I'm doing something so disgusting, so hurtful. It hit hardest that night when we all sat in the living room; Elliot next to me, Christian by the fireplace. Carrick and Grace cuddling on the sofa while Mia went through her book, repeating French words I didn't understand.

Carrick and Grace so friendly to me, yet I'm going behind their back, screwing both their sons, hurting Elliot's heart. The hatred hit so agonizingly, so cripplingly, I had to excuse myself to head outside for some fresh air.

Elliot following me outside. Asking me that fateful question.

"I've been thinking..." Getting on his knee while combing a hand through his long hair, acting like a rock-star as he pulls a ring out of his pocket. "Will you marry me, babe?"

He didn't deserve me. He deserved so much better.

Yet I clammed up in shock. As he slid the ring on my finger, I realized I'd said yes, and it had happened so quickly. Pulling me back inside eagerly to announce the news while I knew, at the back of my mind, that an epic shit-storm was about to burst from Christian.

"Ana and I have some news." Elliot grabbing a glass of bourbon and coke, hitting it playfully with a fork to catch everyone's attention. _Chink, chink, chink_. An announcement.

Me catching Christian out of the corner of my eye by the crackling fireplace, watching us curiously. Being too afraid to look his way, to see what he feels. A dry lump gathering in my throat, shaking hands. The tears already forming. Were they tears of happiness? Or sadness? What? Then-

"Ana and I are engaged."

Carrick and Grace and Mia exclaiming loudly in happiness, in shock.

He was so quiet you could hear a pin drop in the corner of his room near the fireplace. That silence spoke volumes.

"Come on, darling." Grace grabbing my hand enthusiastically, gushing over the ring. "Oh, how beautiful. Elliot did well, didn't he?"

Trapped. I feel trapped by all the gleefulness, the happiness. Suffocating. Stifling.

Smiling nervously as Mia snatches my hand to see the ring too, I steal a look in Christian's direction.

I feel like a gazelle, a petrified mouse as I meet his gaze fleetingly before I have to drag my eyes away fearfully. He looks ravaged, like the carpet has been pulled out from beneath him. He's the lion, the cat. I'm the prey and he's the predator. There's too much weight on how he potentially feels, too much tension and fear of his reaction to this. Concern and fear for him outweighs any happiness.

I'm engaged. But why do I feel so horribly empty? Grace and Mia are crowding around me, fussing, as girls do. And yet why do I feel so alone?

Getting engaged to your boyfriend is supposed to be the most happiest time in a girl's life. For me, it terribly wasn't.


	3. Chapter 3

Stifling. The heat from the fire place, all the emotions around the room...

Happiness. Joy. Betrayal. It's stifling. Suffocating.

Air. I need air.

"E-excuse me." A weak murmur to Grace and Mia, their happiness, their radiating euphoria over the news sickening. "I-I need some air. I'll be right back."

Wobbly stiletto-clad feet managing to get me safely out the front door. My bare shoulders grazing the wall brick behind me. Suffocating. Choking. The first lungful of air inhaled in doesn't seem enough. I inhale in, again and again, sucking in oxygen. My eyes focusing on the dark midnight air, the bright shining stars, the moon. I'm choking.

Ring on my finger, weighing heavy. _What have I done?_

 _What the hell have I done?_

 _Who? Who am I?_

I feel his presence, I sense him, even before I know he's truly there, even before I chance a glance and see him slumped against the wall, standing there physically, head hanging low, hands deep in his trouser pockets, his posture one of defeat, of a man weighed down by weights of unexpressed anger, of confusion, of rage. The front door opening, then closing. A harsh slam. Illustrating alone by the force of the noise just how he truly feels without even words needing to be shared between us.

 _What have I just agreed to?_

"What the fuck?" A bewildered, shaky exhale that leaves him. A very good question.

What the fuck, indeed.

"I'm..." I begin to say softly, then catch my breath, catching my bottom lip between my teeth. I'm what? What? Sorry?

"I don't..." He's struggling, but then so am I. "I don't even know what the fuck..."

"I'm sorry." Finally, I get it right. Leaning my shoulders against the hard, rough brick behind me, I shift in his direction slightly, knowing the first true actual glimpse will slaughter me. I meet his gaze. It does, and it slays. His eyes, staring back at me, shine with actual tears. With tears and hurt and a million other emotions. I've never seen Christian cry before. I hate it.

"Are you?" He has the nerve to ask, my partner in crime, my lover. "You're truly sorry?" He's shaking his head, running his fingers through his thick hair. He's skeptical, like he thinks I'm lying. How dare he?

"What? You don't think I really mean it, Christian?" I break then, crumbling before him. All my self-control evaporates, a hollow, tight feeling in my chest. The tears start, blinding me, obstructing my vision of him, my ultimate addiction, my fix, my cure. "How can you ask me that?" I throw my hands out helpless at my sides.

"How can I ask you that?" he repeats out loud. He's mocking me, taunting me. Shoulder against the wall, he tilts his head to look at me, the brightness of the stars and moon illuminating the side of his face to me. I see the lines across his forehead as he squints at me harshly, the tight line of his lips. "How long have we been doing this for, Anastasia? How long have we been doing this?" His voice is quiet, deceptively so. It goes unlike I've ever heard it before; Low, deep in his chest, soft, vulnerable, trembling with hurt, with confusion. "Months? Years? Ever since you and my brother first met and got together, baby?"

"Four years," I whisper automatically, the heartache in my throat. "Four years, Christian."

"Exactly! _Four_ fucking years we've been doing this!" He sings lowly in agreement, gesturing with an arm, emphasizing his point home, _slam dunk_. "Four fucking years and now, suddenly... _this_?"

This. I know him so well that I can tell why he simply refers to it as 'this'. The sudden engagement sprung up on his family, on him, on... me, it's 'this'. A harmless term, something easy. Something that doesn't have to mean anything, because if he has to say it, if he has to say that word 'engagement', it's too fatal. Too hard, too painful.

"I mean, have you both even talked about this? Is that... what you want?"

Why does everyone always have to ask me that? Is this what I want? Do I want that? What do I want?

I don't have answers to that. I don't know what I want. I know what I need, but what I want... want and need seem to be two entirely different things.

" _We_ haven't even talked about this, about... us properly," I point out. "Four years, Christian, and we don't even talk about what we're doing or... how this is making us feel! We meet. We go out to dinner, then we..." It flashes in my mind. All those hours, minutes, days. All those times. Dinners, movies. Food, caviar, bottles of wine. Desserts, chocolate, bed sheets, lamp lights, hotel rooms, dances. Laughs, kisses, lingering looks, lingering touches. "We... make love."

We hardly talk about feelings much, not the personal, nitty-gritty, down to the root, the core of things.

We talk how it sinks its teeth into us, its hooks, its claws. How good it feels, sensations and moans and body heart. No love, no personal anything. Just secret clandestine meetings after work, when we know Elliot is away, when we know we can afford to spend time together without rousing his suspicions.

Never any talk of any emotional attachments. He calls me baby, he tells me how much he needs me, how much he needs to taste me. How much he needs to be inside me, to feel my warmth, how much he needs to hear me say his name, how much he wants to make me scream. But love? Personal feelings? Never that.

Never the conversation of love with him. Never with Christian.

There's carnality, sensuality, pleasure. But love? Gushing romantic talk of feelings? Never.

"What is this to you, Christian? What is this? Just something... fun we've done for the past few years? Something we just give ourselves into when it grabs hold of us? Or is it... more?"

He groans loudly, his head shaking, tongue pushing out the side of his cheek. "Don't act like you don't know."

"I don't know. I don't know what this is to you, really. I mean, we never talk about it and I just assumed this was something... fun for you?"

"Fun?" It hisses through his teeth incredulously, his voice rising, eyebrows arching. "You think that's what this is all simply about to me? Fun?" He's pissed off by me saying the word- I can see it, I can feel it palpably, in the way his jaw clenches, the way his eyes light up at me in the dark, brimming with rage, with disbelief.

He slides a hand out of his trouser pocket, pressing it into the wall inches above my shoulder, leaning over me, face close to mine. I fight not to close my eyes, not to flinch. He's never physically hurt me before, I know that. But there are times, in the heat of the moment...

"You think I'd waste four extremely long fucking years with you, Anastasia, just for 'fun'?"

The way he says it, it makes me feel stupid, dumb. Like he's a teacher and I'm a school girl, failing on impressing him. "I don't know, Christian," I murmur, voice tight, eyes on his mouth, "What the hell am I supposed to think when you don't tell me? I mean, you don't.. we never talk about anything like this? I'm not a mind reader, I... I don't know what you want!"

"Are you fucking blind?" He reaches towards me with both hands, but it's too late. He catches my head before I can move away, hands cradling my jaw, holding me tight. "Four years, baby?" He murmurs in a strained, frustrated voice, shaking me. My teeth chatter, like I'm a rag doll, something he is trying to shake some sense into, his eyes intense, scanning down the entirety of my face. "Four years and now... now this is fucking sprung up onto me like this? Now you're marrying him?"

I reach up, wide-eyed, helpless, covering my hands over the back of his, palms to his rough knuckles.

"What the fuck were you thinking?" he whispers brokenly, and it's then it hits like a ton of bricks. I've hurt him, crushed him. I can barely stand to look him in the eyes, to see his face, his pain and anguish. Instead, I lower my chin, clenching my eyes shut, my hands instinctively squeezing into his hands, clinging on tight as he jerks me again, shaking me vigorously. It's like he wants to shake me hard enough that my brain will knock against my skull, like I'll somehow crack open and start to begin making some semblance of sense to him. "You said yes?"

I don't think it's a question so much as a statement, an accusation. Still, I strive to answer, a wordless 'yes' leaving my parted lips.

"You want this to stop?" he asks me, and at last, his arms come around me. I lean off the brick wall, into him, shoving my face and my chin up against the side of his warm neck, his throat. "Does it need to stop now, baby? Does it need to stop now that you've said yes, now that... you and Elliot are engaged?" The words are hollow, like he doesn't know what he'll do with himself if I answer affirmative.

Truth be told, neither would I. We've been doing this for so long, like he said. Four years. It's like it's almost become natural between us, easy as breathing. Something we've adapted to, something that's stuck.

Yes, we should have agreed upon while fighting harder. Yes, we should stop now. Now's the right time. This is your brother and we're engaged now.

"You want it to?" I bring myself to ask, my voice smothered in his skin.

"We should," he murmurs, and it's like someone has stabbed me in the gut. I clench my eyes tighter shut, wincing against the invisible shooting stab of stinging pain. "I know." His arms tighten around me, holding me tight to his body, and it feels like home, like where it's always safe and comfortable, up against him, soothed, surrounded by him and his masculine, Christian smell. "We should definitely stop now, baby. It's... the right thing to do now."

"Okay," I murmur softly, my lips moving against his skin in agreement. He hums throatily, his skin reverberating against my lips. Our pact to stop.

But I know it's not true. It never happens, despite how we may promise it, or the way we may speak of it.

Even being engaged to Elliot, it couldn't cease it.

Notions of right or wrong... love for his brother, my new fiance-to-be, even that couldn't stop us.

We're like two half-committed smokers. We'll quit today, one of us says. Then we give in to the craving, pledging that tomorrow we'll do better. Or the next day. Or the next.

We're like two sex addicts, only it isn't porn. It's each other.

"Before it gets too... messy," he adds, and he reaches up, raking his fingers through the strands of my hair, pushing it away from my forehead. Like a flower to the sun, I unconsciously lean into his touch, his warmth. "Or complicated. Elliot will never forgive me enough as it is."

Forcing my eyes to reopen, I peer up at him, a silent sigh escaping through my lips as he strokes the strands of my hair, his gray eyes studying my face closely. Then I see that perceptible change come over him; The softening of his expression, the loosening of tense jaw, the building warmth and tenderness in his eyes for me. That look has always been like an aphrodisiac to me, an instant panty-wetter.

"I fucking hate you," he mutters, yet it comes out all wrong. His voice is lighter, laced with nothing else but affection, with tenderness. "I hate you for saying yes, for marrying him." He shakes his head once as he grits his teeth, narrows his eyes. He reaches down, catches my chin between his hands, squeezing down lightly, punishingly, admonishing. "You kill me, baby." Leaning down, he kisses me on my forehead, his breathing ragged.

I lift up my chin before I even know what's overcome me, pressing his lips to mine. Warm, gentle, hesitant.

A goodbye kiss. A farewell and thank-you for good times for over four extremely long years but now I'm marrying your brother and it's time to move on kiss.

My hand moves up, and I push my fingertips through the small soft hairs there above the nape of his neck, a gruff moan escaping him. I scratch his scalp with my fingernails, the way I've come to learn he likes it.

We tilt our heads in the opposite direction at the same time, accommodating each other, our lips moving, dancing, caressing.

And then it takes over, uncontrollable, always there. Needy, beneath the surface.

That need. That addiction. That craving. His breaths and mine, shuddering, fast, he wedges his foot between mine, his height the perfect compliment to mine. His knee hits me there, through my dress, effortlessly.

It grasps onto the pair of us, tight. It's cruel and heartless, and it doesn't care about being a monster. It doesn't care about ruining other people, or breaking hearts like Elliot's. All it cares about, is fulfilling and satisfying it's need through us.

Selfish. Callous. Greedy. Self-serving.

Even my engagement to Elliot wasn't enough to cause us to wean ourselves off each other.

Even Christian's anger, his betrayal, the knowledge that we're going to inevitably hurt his family by what we're doing, it wasn't enough.

Our need and compulsion for each other was stronger. Even that night when Elliot and my engagement was announced.

...

"So... truth or dare?" Fifth day of being together, alone, meeting after the pair of us have gotten off from work.

Him, dressed in just a white-button up dress shirt, his business trousers, it a humid muggy afternoon. Me dressed in a blouse, skirt and stilettos, all business. Two gin and tonics before us on the pine table at the cozy, intimate restaurant he had invited me out to, his already half-gone. His lips shiny and deliciously wet with gin as he waits for me to take the bait, all Mr Cool and Suave.

"Truth," I murmur, then curl my fingers around my glass. The second sip I swallow seems to go straight to my head, making me float in a perfect, gin cloud of joy.

"Okay. Truth..." He hesitates, reaching for his own glass. Fingers swivel the glass around, gray eyes bright with thought. "Do you... love him?" he finally asks, shooting the nail into my proverbial coffin. "I know you two have only been dating for less than three weeks, but... do you?" His words careless, curious, emotionless.

It all boils down to this, the answer. If I say yes, it means a wave of anger, especially after he _tasted me_ two nights ago in bed. _But if I say no..._

"Why would you ask me that?" I decide on, the safest answer. Hand fumbles for the side of my too-hot face, my fingers tucking a wayward strand of dark hair back behind my ear. "Are you seriously daring to ask me whether I'm in love with your brother right now?"

A sharp hiss leaves his teeth as he nods once, his eyes going far away, distant as he stares at something behind me in the room. "Is that a yes?" he asks, something there in his tone, a tight edge.

"What does it matter to you?"

He shrugs, taking a sip of his gin, lips slick with gin-moisture again. "It doesn't. I don't care either way."

"Then why ask?"

"Because..." He pauses, tongue darting out. "He's your _boyfriend_ now, isn't he?" _Boyfriend._ Like it's a dirty word, something inspiring disgust, disdain.

"Yeah, he is. I _did_ say yes to being his girlfriend."

Tongue touches the corner of his mouth, making me remember. Heat roams over the back of my neck, my chest. My thighs squelch together in my seat.

 _You came so beautifully hard that I tasted you..._

His words come into my mind, brutally, out of nowhere. How can someone say such a thing, something so dirty-minded, so sexy, yet still be so filled with self-confidence?

"Why'd you do that?" I demand, starting my own trail of conversation.

Christian's eyes dart up to meet mine, his eyebrows furrowing. "Do what?"

"You know..." Thighs clench beneath the table again, heat resurfacing. "That night. While Elliot was in the shower."

His eyes light up, bright with retelling the own story on his own. "Because I wanted to," he says simply, end-of-story. He leans back in the chair comfortably, eyes holding mine.

A lump forms, hard and thick. "You... you _wanted_ to?"

"Yeah." Gray eyes hold mine, bold and unapologetic. Then they roam down my chin, my throat, the swell of cleavage concealed by my modest blouse, eyelashes fluttering. The heat is skin-scorching. "I wanted to..." He stops, eyes finding mine again. Hiss through clenched teeth. "Taste you."

Abashed, embarrassing giggle tumbles from my mouth. "Wow. You make it sound as if I'm a meal?"

He smiles, showing his teeth. "Dessert."

"I'm still mad at you, by the way," I remind him, but my voice is anything but mad. And I'm not. Not really. "You really had no right. It was..."

"What?" His voice is soft, interested. Like he's hanging onto my every word.

"Harassment," I finish.

He makes a face, then lifts a hand, making a motion with his thumb and forefinger. More drinks please.

"Hurry up and drink your gin and tonic," he says, making it sound like a dare.

"Are you trying to get me drunk or something?"

A half-hearted chuckle escapes him. "That's the plan."

Two hours later, six empty tall glasses of gin and tonic between us on the table. Three each. My head buzzing, my skin too warm. He keeps moving, rocking from side to side, like we're at sea on a boat. I'm tipsy, first time I have gotten drunk since a party I went to with a close friend after graduating.

It starts that night, as in 'really starts'.

Our fifth time of hanging out together, just as 'friends', my new boyfriend's brother and I spending time together. Little had I known it would quickly evolve into something more.

Had I known how difficult it would be to stop once we got started, I maybe would have stopped myself in advance. He'd tasted me one night, me _coming so beautifully in his mouth_ , and now he was ready and he wanted more. And, ultimately, I wanted more, too.

Christian playing gentleman for a few minutes, helping me out of my seat because I feel too numb to move. Supporting me with an arm tight around my waist, keeping me upright. Us wandering outside, him hauling a cab. His arm never leaving its place around me.

Sliding in the backseat of the cab together, the leather sticky against my bare legs. Everything seeming so intensified from outside the window, the street lights, the atmosphere from being tipsy. Christian's voice echoing in my ears as he told the driver where to go. Hardly noticing Christian's hand resting on my thigh until I'd looked down sleepily, on the verge of passing out.

Looking at each other, laughing foolishly at how drunk he appeared, at how flushed he was in the face, how drugged-out and heavy his eyelids appeared every time he blinked at me. Touching his cheek and patting it with my hand, feeling his sweaty warmth. His smile at my laughter. The way his dopey eyes kept moving from my mouth, to my eyes and back again.

Then his thumb beneath my chin, stroking it. Each of us leaning in, the spark of electricity or something resembling desire coursing through me as our lips touched curiously. My drunken slow brain marveling how well he kissed, how his lips felt so warm and good against mine. How he used his tongue with such skill against mine.

My arm sliding around his neck while he shifted in the backseat against me, pressing me back against the leather. My hand grabbing his, guiding it down beneath my skirt. My pelvis rocking desperately while his fingertips kept rubbing through my cotton panties.

Our drunken laughter vibrating against each other's mouths when the cab driver chastised us for being indecent in his 'workplace'. I am not even so sure Elliot had crossed our minds then, that we even thought about the damage we were bound to be doing, what we were starting, a habit we were creating just by allowing our drunken desires to prevail against all better sense.

"Come back to my room with me," he'd pleaded in my ear sensually, his tongue sloppy and slurry yet enticing all the same. We'd broken apart, trying to appear decent after the driver scolded us for 'starting to soil his workplace'. "I'm staying at the Heathman. Just one night, Anastasia. I want to do more than just taste your sopping wetness in my mouth." Sweetening the deal, he'd lowered his head, pressing a lingering, warm kiss to my knuckles. "What harm will it do?"

 _Everything. It had the potential to harm everything._


End file.
